


The Ladder

by cloven



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, John and Sherlock get more insight than they bargained for, M/M, Occult, Role Reversal, Slash, Tarot (kind of)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-27
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 14:17:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloven/pseuds/cloven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John receives a gift from his newest fling, strange things begin to happen. But is the innocuous-seeming little card deck really at the heart of it, or is there a nice, logical explanation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Accident in a Restaurant

**Author's Note:**

> Britpicking by the wonderful [merpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merpirate), who is perhaps too kind to me, but I fault her nothing ♥ All mistakes still remaining are my own.

It was a misty Tuesday evening when John reminded Sherlock that they had reservations. They were supposed to eat together at an exclusive Italian restaurant down the street. The reservations had been made three months ago, as penance for a nasty experiment gone (he hoped) wrong. John’s carpet and half his clothes still reeked of vinegar. There had been a few options for earlier time slots, but Sherlock had specifically chosen this one in hopes that John would forget the entire situation, wishfully feeding himself the lie that John did, in fact, forget things. So it was that they found themselves in a dim, velvety environment, surrounded by the quiet whispers of established couples and the firm murmurs of after-hours business transactions. They were halfway through their main entrée, Sherlock prodding a fat tortellini across his plate, when John sliced his thumb open.

The surprised exclamation was too soft, given the amount of blood that was pouring out onto the tablecloth. He held the digit out in front of him, momentarily at a loss as to what to do with it, since his mouth was filled to bursting with pasta. Sherlock’s brows came together, eyes flicking across the doctor’s baffled face as the other man searched for something to stem the bleeding.

“Clumsy, John,” Sherlock said reproachfully, coming to his rescue. He whipped his napkin off his lap and handed it to his friend, who threw him a grateful look.

“Yeah,” he finally managed, swallowing his mouthful as he wrapped the cloth around his flayed finger. Dark crimson blossomed across the white cloth and he wrapped it a third time, looking around self-consciously. This time, the white stayed white. “I dunno what happened. I don’t even remember picking the knife _up_.” He murmured softly to himself, shaking his head, but it was obvious from his posture that he was less concerned with his own mental faculties and more concerned with the state of the table. He was stiff with anxiety, eyes darting across the blotches that had turned the tablecloth nearly black in some areas. He sat up straighter as their waiter came over, but his expression lacked the tell-tale jutting chin of John steeling himself for battle. No, more likely he was readying an apology. Sherlock scoffed, glaring down at the obviously too-sharp knife. Or, perhaps, too slippery. There was no logical reason that John should’ve cut himself on the thing. His tremor had all but disappeared, and aside from that, he possessed a surgeon’s steady grip. No, there was clearly something amiss with the cutlery. The young waiter, for his part, looked honestly concerned, although whether for John or the restaurant’s damaged goods remained to be seen.

“Are you alright, sir?” the lad asked quietly, placing himself as a visual barrier between John and the other customers, large brown eyes only sparing a cursory glance at the table. Concerned about John, then. Good.

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” John smiled crookedly, embarrassed. “I’ll pay for the table cloth…” The waiter’s head began to shake before John even finished his sentence, emphatically refusing him. Which was good, considering Sherlock would’ve torn the boy apart for allowing such a thing. The waiter left a moment later in search of a bandage, and by the time he returned, the bleeding had lessened exponentially, only needing a few careless wipes of the cloth (which John also expressed the desire to replace) before he wrapped the bandage awkwardly around it.

They escaped the restaurant with minimal fussing, although the manager had paid them a visit, to offer his own apology, which Sherlock thought appropriate. He would’ve thought it more appropriate for the man to offer their meal free of charge, given that their appetites (well, John’s appetite) had been ruined, but as John would’ve declined the offer anyway, it was irrelevant.

Once they got back to their flat, John set to work cleaning his wound in the kitchen sink. It looked far angrier under the harsh kitchen lighting. The split went from the tip of his thumb clear through the webbing between his thumb and forefinger, and John’s features seemed to settle into a permanent wince as he dabbed at the cut longer than necessary. After a while, he resumed his head-shaking. Sherlock watched him from his chair in the sitting room, quirking an eyebrow as John’s voice reached out, although he was reasonably sure that the good doctor was mostly just thinking aloud. “It doesn’t make any sense. Why would I have picked it up in the first place? I was eating _pasta_ , for Christ’s sake. There was nothing to cut.”

“The solution is simple, my dear Watson,” Sherlock said darkly, steepling his fingers together. John looked over, his expression made more anxious by the detective’s tone. He paused for dramatic effect, and then continued, “This was obviously an act of your subconscious, guilty over attempting to force feed me during a case.” John’s face immediately fell into one of exasperation, glaring sideways as he turned his attention back to his cut.

“Ha bloody ha,” he murmured to himself, but Sherlock noticed that his posture lacked the rigidity it had a moment earlier. He grinned inwardly, flopping back to stare at the ceiling. He expected that to be the end of it, but John continued. “You can hardly call it a case, can you? Nobody even hired you.”

“I can, and do,” Sherlock said, perhaps with more force than necessary. “A problem doesn’t stop existing just because everyone is too stupid to notice it, John.”

“But you said yourself, you aren’t even sure if this _was_ murder.”

Sherlock didn’t even dignify that with a response. He closed his eyes against the world, hearing John’s near-soundless exhalation as he turned his attention back to his cut: something that _was_ in the realm of his control.

Lestrade had been ready to close the investigation when Sherlock had snatched it from his office. The Detective Inspector probably hadn’t even realized it was missing yet, possibly thinking it had been taken by one of his subordinates for filing, as it should’ve been. The photographs of the “crime scene” were scattered across the coffee table, one bearing a ring that looked suspiciously like the bottom of one of their tea cups.

Doris Evans. An elderly woman. Eighty-five. Prescribed Warfarin after a blood clot nearly took her life seven months prior. Halfway up the stairs to her bedroom, her foot slipped, and she fell that distance to the ground below. A hard landing on one of the steps resulted in a ruptured spleen. The Warfarin, as it was meant to do, kept her blood from clotting, and the internal bleeding, along with a concussion that rendered her unconscious, finished the job. She was dead, crumpled up at the foot of the stairs, by the time her granddaughter stepped in that evening.

Those were the facts, and from what Sherlock had seen of the crime photos and testimony, everything pointed the same direction. Accidental death. But something didn’t sit right. Sherlock would never admit to relying on intuition, but when sniffing out cases, it had proved to be a valuable resource.

He pulled John’s mobile from his own pocket, accurately predicting that John wouldn’t notice its absence while he licked his wound. He sneered at the missed calls from someone named _Joanne_. John hadn’t mentioned this one yet, although Sherlock supposed he’d been exhibiting the signs of a budding relationship for the past few days. He’d gotten a haircut. Bought a new jumper (green). Four missed calls already. Clingy. She wouldn’t last the week. He deleted the notices, sending off a text to Molly that he wanted to see Evans’ body, and then tossed the phone between his feet on the couch, closing his eyes once again to go over the facts. Without any new input, however, the result would be the same. After only a few moments, he leapt from the couch, frustrated, and picked up the phone. Why hadn’t Molly gotten back with him yet? It wasn’t like her to-

“She has a date, Sherlock,” John said easily, having somehow teleported from the kitchen to the couch, tugging his mobile from a shocked Sherlock’s grasp and placing it back in his own pocket. “And ask before you use my things.”

_Ask._ Not _don’t._ Progress. Sherlock’s smirk died on his lips, however. “A date?”

“You didn’t notice?” John’s brow furrowed, disbelieving. “Earlier today… the mascara? The way she was flitting around, but not quite as focused on your every motion? She was even talking back to you a little. Obviously, there’s someone special…” He trailed off, and Sherlock realized that all of his deductions were correct. He vividly remembered Molly’s beaming face. Her somewhat distracted demeanor. And she never wore makeup unless she was wearing it _for_ someone. Why hadn’t he noticed? Or more importantly, why had John? His eyes narrowed, and he looked his flat mate over critically. John returned the look, his expression dubious, as if Sherlock were toying with him. Sherlock didn’t rush to correct this. “Right…” John finally continued, shaking off the strange vibes. “I’m sure she’ll answer once she gets home. If she gets home. Bit loose on first dates, isn’t sh-” He stopped fully, and they both blinked, unable to believe he’d almost… No, enough of it had gotten out. He’d definitely just criticized Molly Hooper.

“ _John,_ ” Sherlock chastised, giving him a mock disapproving face. He flushed, shaking his head again, as if attempting to deny it, and mumbled something about _bad influences_ and _beds_ and _sleep_ before disappearing up to his bedroom.


	2. Insomnia

If asked, Sherlock might have said that he’d gotten the best sleep of his life. Never had his mind become so refreshingly unobtrusive, or his thoughts so fluid. His thoughts were usually like knives, cutting into the quiet of his relaxed mind and urging him to  _go_ , to  _do something_. Somehow, last night, his mind had decided to take a holiday. That is, until about two in the morning, when the nightmares began. Vicious images, some real, some imagined, twisted and viewed from obscene angles, as if his brain had put the entirety of its vast brilliance into finding ways to sicken him. He crawled out of bed at three, unwilling to delve back into that battlefield, which was somehow so much worse than the real thing. He washed his face with cold water, shaking himself fully awake, and headed down to the sitting room to stare at Doris Evans’ file.

He was a bit surprised to find the lights already on, and John sitting with his chin on his clasped fingers, eyes glued to some playing cards he’d spread out across the table. He looked up, smiling tiredly as Sherlock entered. Up closer, the detective could see dark patches under his eyes. He hardly looked like he’d slept a wink.

“You, too?” John asked, looking him over, his brows knitting. “Or… you got to sleep, and something roused you. You’re all sweaty. Nightmares?” Sherlock scoffed, but didn’t deny it, making his way into the kitchen. It was only when he began pouring the boiling water into their cups that he realized what he was doing. He blinked, a little stunned. Well… it wasn’t like he’d never made tea before. He had. Plenty of times. Hadn’t he?

He finished, unwilling to let his unease control his actions, and brought both cups out to the sitting room, setting John’s down in front of him and sinking down onto the couch beside him. John barely noticed, fully absorbed in a little booklet he had open on the table. Up close, Sherlock realized that the playing cards weren’t playing cards at all. For one, there weren’t enough of them. There couldn’t have been more than twenty. They also had peculiar drawings on them, followed by one or two words at the bottom.

“What’s this?” he asked, picking up a card at random and studying the dark etchings. This one didn’t have a word at the bottom. It was a dark shape, armless, with stubby, shapeless legs and a flat, rock-like head. For some reason, it sent a shiver down his spine. He put it back.

“Not quite sure. Joanne gave um to me. It’s supposed to tell you about yourself, or your past or future or something,” John said absently, turning the page. His expression was turning from one of concentration to frustration. “I keep feeling like the cards are supposed to have patterns, you know? But I can’t figure out what it is. Like, take this one…” He picked up a card, showing it to Sherlock. A dark tunnel, framed with rocks. The bottom read, predictably,  _The Tunnel_. “The booklet says this one means… Monday. Sexual disturbance. A swindle. Loss of wits. Diseases of the blood. Angst. False trust… And the list goes on. Makes no sense. If that one comes up, how are you supposed to know what meaning to pick?” He shook his head, obviously putting far more thought than necessary into this.

“I think your answer is eluding you because of its simplicity,” Sherlock said.

“Oh?” John asked, voice higher with interest.

“It means nothing. It’s a card.” He smiled, close-mouthed, as John’s face once again dipped into frustration.

“If you’re not going to help, go do something productive,” John huffed, picking up another card and staring at it, as if the burning head drawn there might be convinced to spill all of its secrets.

“I’ve made you tea,” Sherlock said proudly, and John’s eyes snapped to him and then down to the cup, surprised.

“You made tea,” he repeated, and then looked back up at Sherlock darkly.

“I haven’t put anything in it, aside from the usual,” he assured him, rising from the couch and scooping up a handful of photographs to take with him to his chair, leaving John with two puzzles.

After a short while perched on his chair, however, he began to realize that something was amiss. His thoughts were wandering. He pulled his laptop over, thinking that perhaps he needed a new focus. But no, even that only held his attention for so long, his eyes swinging across the room in a wide arc, not really looking at anything in particular, soaking up useless information like how John had only drained half of his tea, and how the doctor had now attempted to arrange the cards into a pattern, although Sherlock couldn’t figure out what that pattern might be. Not that he tried very hard.

The jingle of John’s mobile snapped him back into focus, and he waited expectantly as John pulled it out, frowning at whatever he saw there.

“Lestrade wants his case file back,” he said, replacing it. Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation. Not the response he was expecting at—he looked at his laptop—six in the morning. Lestrade was pulling an all-nighter. That meant another case. A more interesting case. He couldn’t remember seeing anything about it in the papers, so a brand new case. Intriguing. Still, something about this old woman kept his attention. Perhaps he could solve hers on the side. Or even better, maybe he could solve hers today and have his full attention to devote to the new, exciting one.

Another jingle, another frown.

“Molly says she can be at the morgue in under an hour,” he relayed, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s across the room. “She says that Evans’ body is set to be cremated this afternoon.”

Sherlock flew to his room, pulling on clothes, John’s voice chasing him. “Now, Sherlock, that doesn’t mean anything. Plenty of people get cremated these days.”

“The Islamic faith forbids cremation,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he reappeared, sliding his scarf over his head, noting that despite his reservations, John was already dressed, as well.

“She’s Muslim?” John asked, surprised. “I don’t remember seeing that in her case file…”

“It doesn’t say she isn’t,” Sherlock grinned lopsidedly. “My point being, we don’t have all the facts, John.”

“Fine, then,” John huffed, his shoulders squaring in a way that meant he was far from convinced. “Let’s go get them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Britpicking by the wonderful [merpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merpirate), who is perhaps too kind to me, but I fault her nothing ♥ All mistakes still remaining are my own.


	3. Reversals

The body was exactly like he’d pictured it, from the purple bruise covering the left side of her abdomen to the dramatic hair loss, which could’ve been either from old age or, more likely, from the doses of Warfarin she’d been taking.

“Didn’t go well, then?” John asked, and Sherlock’s eyes snapped up to find his flat mate’s attention focused on Molly, whose expression was a mixture of confusion and displeasure.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, noting the look of pity that John allowed Molly before making his way over to the table. Once safely by his side, Sherlock said softly, “What are you doing?”

John looked sideways at the body, grimacing. “I don’t know, Sherlock. What am I doing? This was clearly caused by-“

“I mean, with Molly,” he pressed, and John’s expression clouded up a bit as he tried to figure out what Sherlock was referring to.

“Oh!” he said, waving his hand through the air dismissively. “Her date didn’t go well. Fact that she’s here, for one. Bags under her eyes, so she didn’t sleep. She has her phone on silent. And of course, that she’s being all quiet, trying to keep from drawing your attention to her. Can’t be good.”

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, giving Molly a quick once-over. Ah. Yes. He supposed all of that could’ve-

“What’s this, now?” John murmured, pressing a gloved finger into the cadaver’s arm.

“What?” Sherlock asked, leaning down, ignoring the creeping feeling in the back of his head that something was, and had been, very wrong with this picture. The fact that he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was made him even more uneasy.

“There’s a mark here,” he said, straightening back up. “It’s a needle mark, I’m sure. Molly, who did this autopsy?”

“I did,” she said quickly, flushing at his demanding tone.

“And you didn’t find the needle mark?” he pressed, sounding, as it were, very un-John-like. Sherlock couldn’t place exactly who he sounded like, but it wasn’t John. His brow furrowed as he noticed Molly shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

“I thought…”

“You thought it was irrelevant, despite the fact that she took all her medication orally? Really, Molly?” he scoffed at her, too absorbed in his own medical expertise to notice his tone. “The needle mark hasn’t healed up. Whatever it is, it’s still in her system. We’ll need another toxicology screen, more comprehensive this time, since this last one obviously wasn’t broad enough. Come now, Molly. This is basic stuff here.”

Sherlock could see tears beginning to form in the corners of Molly’s eyes, not used to this sort of abuse from him.

“John,” he said gently, putting a hand on his arm. Molly’s eyes fell to it, and then to Sherlock’s face, before darting away wide-eyed as if she’d seen something dirty. Sherlock felt a wave of self-consciousness, wondering fleetingly what expression had been on his face to garner that sort of reaction. His hand, thankfully, had the desired effect of pulling his flat mate’s attention back to him again, although he didn’t seem ready to spew the usual apologies just yet. Strange.

“This means you were right, Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of him, blue eyes bright, cheeks flushed with excitement. He had a ridiculously broad smile on his face. “I’m sure of it. She was killed. I don’t know exactly how, or why, but it’s murder.”

Sherlock only had time for the passing thought of _that’s my line_ before John was whipping out through the heavy morgue doors, leaving a somewhat dazed Sherlock and Molly in his wake. Sherlock offered Molly a small smile, shrugging, and sped off after him, because really, what else could he do?

 

He caught up with John right as a cab pulled up to off to whisk him off to who-knows-where, managing to squeeze himself in just as his flat mate finished barking directions.

“Right… where are we going?” Sherlock asked, a little miffed at how clipped John was acting.

“I thought it was obvious?” John said, giving Sherlock a withering look, as if reassessing him. Sherlock found that he really, really didn’t like that look. At all. He looked back at it steadily, eyes narrowing. John caved a little, sighing. “She had to have been murdered by someone close. Someone who knew about her condition, and her medication. The doctor had an alibi, and even if he didn’t, we have to take the cremation into account. Someone who has control over her burial rights, or control over the person who does. So, family member. It could be someone sneaking in from out of town, but that’s highly unlikely. No, we’re looking for someone already in the area. Someone who stands to gain from this. Someone who would inherit the estate. Her caregiver, perhaps. The granddaughter.”

“John…” Sherlock’s voice was soft, worried. After a moment, John blinked back, his expression finally turning into something other than whatever manic, harsh thing had previously taken it over. His shoulders sagged in on themselves, eyes turning inward, and Sherlock felt his chest squeezing with some strange, foreign sensation. They sat there for a moment in silence, before John let out a long, rattling breath, his brows heavy with concern.

“Sherlock… is there something wrong with us?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future updates probably won't happen quite so frequently. I would space these out, if I could force myself. Ah well.  
> Britpicking done by the lovely [merpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merpirate) ♥ All mistakes still remaining are my own. Corrections are always appreciated.


	4. Creeping Sickness

“Okay, when did it first start?” John asked, pacing back and forth, bandaged hand on his chin. Sherlock leaned against a home’s heavy iron fencing, watching him with concern. They’d been dropped off just down the street from the dead woman’s house, hoping to catch the granddaughter on her way back from work. Or something. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure of all the details, but he felt secure that things would turn out for the best. They usually did. Sometimes. Occasionally. “Last night,” John continued, “you were awoken by nightmares, right?”

“What?” Sherlock jerked to attention, not really sure why John’s train of thought had suddenly jumped from his own problem to Sherlock’s far less important one. “How does that have anything to do with-“

“Because, that’s when it started, isn’t it?” John interrupted, giving him a scathing look. “My…” he trailed off, one hand on his chest, as if something in there pained him. “And your…” he waved both hands at Sherlock, palms out, as if referring to his entire being. His motions were met with confusion.

 

“My what?” Sherlock asked slowly, hands in his pockets. John stared at him for a long while, giving him the same searching look he’d been garnering every few moments since… Since he’d made tea that morning. “Oh! …Oh…” he said, happily at first, to have made the logical connection, and then, as the full force of his situation hit him, with an increasing amount of dread. “I’ve been acting strangely,” he said, searching John’s face for agreement.

 

John nodded. “Which is good, I guess. If we were _both_ acting like you-“

“Like what now?” Sherlock interrupted this time, brows furrowing. “I do not…” he held his arm out, making a back and forth motion that was _clearly_ John pacing across the… John raised an eyebrow. “Well, surely I don’t…” he trailed of, thinking about how John had torn through poor Molly’s social life as if it were... John’s other brow went up. Sherlock’s face fell, with a rather put-out, “Oh…” John gave him an apologetic look, proving that the world hadn’t turned entirely inside out.

“So, your nightmares…” John pressed, a little more gently this time. Sherlock stood up straighter, looking down at his feet and back up again.

“Nothing too unusual, aside from the fact that I don’t usually have them,” he said simply. He was content to leave it at that, but John clearly wasn’t. After a minute of too-high eyebrows raised expectantly over too-bright eyes, he huffed, continuing, “Old cases, mostly. Murders. Some gruesome, some not. Dead things attacking me. Me defending myself against countless dark, faceless things. I really don’t see how this is important, John.”

The doctor shook his head, “No, it wouldn’t be, except that I _didn’t_ have nightmares. In fact, I couldn’t sleep at all. It was like my brain wouldn’t turn off. I kept thinking of… well… everything.”

“Curious,” Sherlock murmured to himself. John’s mouth quirked slightly, and Sherlock gave him a withering look, not appreciating his current inability to read the shorter man’s mind. “What is it?”

“No, just. Are we really, honestly considering the idea that we got… I dunno… body swapped or something?” His lopsided grin spread out wide across his face, and Sherlock found himself mirroring a smaller version of it, shaking his head.

“Not body swapped, John. That’s impossible, if far more interesting,” he smiled inwardly, imagining the experience of being in the doctor’s shorter, stocky form. At least his desire for new experiences hadn’t waned with his personality shift, although that could also be chalked up to John’s appreciation for challenging situations. His smile faded. How could he trust _any_ of his own thoughts? It was impossible that they’d actually had their personalities switched, but it wasn’t unconceivable that they’d been hypnotized into thinking or behaving as they expected the other might. So really, this behavior said more about how they viewed one another than it did about how they actually functioned as individuals. Sherlock wasn’t sure whether to take John’s sharp impersonation of him as a compliment or criticism. His emotionally-incensed John-self thought it was rather tasteless, but that could just be his own self-doubt over John’s approval of him.

He closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face. This was giving him a headache.

“Come off it, it’s not _that_ complicated,” John scoffed, and Sherlock peeked out at him through his fingers. Of course, this John would’ve come to the same conclusions. Faster, probably. Irritating. Although that only proved his own intellectual superiority. He smirked, and John glared at him. “I can see what you’re doing there, you know. Using my behavior to compliment yourself. It isn’t very becoming.”

Would he say that? _Becoming?_

“We should probably pay a visit to my therapist. Maybe she can-“ He was cut off by his pocket ringing. He pulled out his mobile, flicking it open almost immediately and pressing it to his ear. “Joanne! I meant to call.”

Sherlock leapt forward, struck with the urge to test his _John_ emotions on a new subject, “Oh! Oh, let me speak with her!” John looked at him as if he were daft, holding up a hand to keep him at bay.

“What?” he was asking, forcing a smile despite the fact that the woman couldn’t see him. “No, I didn’t get your calls… No! There isn’t anyone- Wait, Joanne! I was out with my flat mate last night. Yes! Really! You’re being completely irrational. If I wanted to cheat on you with someone else, I’d be able to juggle it better than-”

“You’re going to ruin your relationship!” Sherlock hissed. “Not to mention a fantastic opportunity for self-discovery!”

“What?” John’s eyes only darted to Sherlock for an instant before focusing again on the phone. “Yes, of course I still have it. What’s that got to do with-“ He stopped, pulling the phone from his ear and staring at it, perplexed. “She hung up on me.”

“I told you,” Sherlock said, sighing melodramatically. “You can’t be _me_ and maintain a relationship, John. It’s metaphysically impossible. Besides, she was far too clingy.”

John glared at his phone, and, more surprisingly, began nodding slightly, “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that. Strange one, wasn’t she.” He looked up, grinning in an almost embarrassed way. Sherlock relaxed, pleased that there did, in fact, still seem to be some _John_ left under there. “You know, night before last, we went back to her place, right? I dropped the remote on accident, and when I bent down, I saw under the sofa she had this little… doll thing. Every time I think about it, it seems more likely that it was _me_. How messed up is that? I think she gave me those weird cards just to get my attention off it,” he chuckled nervously to himself. After his chuckle trailed off, he looked up at Sherlock, a strange expression on his face. “You don’t think…”

“A voodoo doll?” Sherlock shook his head, “Even if it were, curses are the stuff of fairy tales.”

“Yeah,” John said, nodding, but a line of worry remained, dark and troubled between his brows.

Fortunately, they didn’t have long to dwell on this unsettling idea. A car pulled into Evans’ driveway. It wasn’t an expensive car, despite the luxurious landscaping that portended a monetarily-secure homeowner. The girl who stepped out of the vehicle looked to be in her mid-20s, obviously eager to get an early start on her life of crime. Or her life sentence.

Sherlock and John were within fifty feet of the front stoop when John’s hand shot out, pulling Sherlock around the brick pillar of a neighboring house. Sherlock saw the panda police car milliseconds later. He was wondering idly why they were troubling themselves to avoid it when one Sally Donovan stepped from its casing, disappearing from sight as she made her way up to the front door. It occurred to Sherlock that he probably didn’t want to be discovered at this point in time, powerless to come up with his normal repertoire of biting comments, although he wondered vaguely if John would supply them in his stead. The thought was almost enough incentive to blow their cover. Almost. As if sensing this, John’s grip on his arm tightened. He stifled a grin.

Donovan didn’t stay long. Three minutes tops, and when she reappeared, she was trailed by one Florence Harris, granddaughter to the late Doris Evans. Both women paused outside their cars, leaning on the doors as they traded some insignificant bit of information, before vanishing into their vehicles. The panda car pulled out first, followed closely by Harris’ beat up red sedan.

“Heading to the Met, but not in handcuffs,” John supplied helpfully. It occurred to Sherlock that John’s continued deductions should make him, well, jealous or something. But while he was mildly irritated by his own deductive inability, he didn’t feel particularly envious of John’s newfound knack for it. In fact, if he had to place a name to the feeling he got when John provided relevant information, it would have to be… admiration? Even the cutting quality of the doctor’s remarks earlier didn’t change this. He was honestly happy that John was able to borrow his abilities for a while. If it turned out to be longer than a while… Well, they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

The biggest question now was, did he, Sherlock, honestly admire this John, or was his unconscious mind offering what it assumed John thought of these qualities? And if it happened to be the latter, why _didn’t_ he feel jealous? He’d always assumed that those with lesser intellectual capacities envied his abilities, and he would’ve automatically assumed that John was no different. However, if he was currently supplying his own opinion of John’s emotions, the jealousy should’ve been there, underlying every one of John’s correct deductions. Unless, of course, these were his own true feelings.

 _Or maybe_ , _you really are channeling his emotions,_ a dark voice in his mind whispered unhelpfully. _And he isn’t jealous._

Sherlock snorted aloud, gaining a questioning look from his comrade. He took a deep breath, already questioning the logic behind his next words, if not their wisdom, “Alright, then. Therapist first, Met second.”

John looked ready to argue, drawing himself to his full height (still short), but it quickly faded into resignation. He scratched the back of his head, looking out to where Donovan’s car had disappeared, witness in tow. “Yeah. Can’t afford to piss off half the police force, can I,” he said, letting out a strained chuckle.

Sherlock smiled, “Indeed not. One of us has to be likeable, or we’ll never have access to the really juicy cases.”

“You are likeable,” John said unthinkingly. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John grimaced. “Well, you can be. Besides, you had access to cases before I showed up.”

Sherlock turned away, worried that the warmth blossoming in his chest from the compliment might somehow bleed onto his face. Was this emotion what John felt whenever Sherlock paid him a kindness? He made a mental note to remark on his positive attributes more often. “No,” he said instead, choosing to remark only on the second part of John’s statement. “They’ll be expecting you now. Let’s not disappoint them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Britpicking by the wonderful [merpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merpirate), who is perhaps too kind to me, but I fault her nothing ♥ All mistakes still remaining are my own.


	5. Detention

 

John looked around Ella‘s office, his brow wrinkling. It was like an entirely different place… How had he never noticed those particular scuff marks around the armrest of the chair he always sat in? He wrinkled his nose at them, imagining the very unprofessional activities that would’ve led to their existence. Wondering if they had been made before or after his therapist came to own it. They looked fairly recent. Had she been the one to make them? With another client, perhaps? He tore his eyes away from the offensive furniture, attempting to ignore the other unwanted information flowing into his brain. Ella was taking care of her sister’s son. The one in the new photo on her desk. He’d puked on her shoulder, and it still smelled of cough medicine. He was sick, then. That explained the bags under her eyes. She wouldn’t have left the boy alone, though. And she’d split up with her husband recently, judging by the pale mark where her wedding ring used to be, so… Her sister had moved in with her. Or perhaps she’d moved in with her sister?

John shook his head, trying to clear it. What difference did any of this make? He noticed Sherlock looking at him expectantly, and realized belated that his friend had been speaking to him.

“What?”

“Dr. Thompson was asking exactly what our symptoms are,” Sherlock replied, his mouth quirking at the edge in a perplexing way. John stared at it, confused by his own confusion. He was usually pretty good at figuring out Sherlock’s expressions.

“We already explained them on the phone, Ella. I’m sure you remember well enough,” John replied curtly, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock’s mouth. “I doubt you would’ve made time for us otherwise, going by the tattered state of your home life.” He ignored the widening eyes and parting lips. Her reaction was irrelevant, unless it could somehow help him judge her skills. …Would it? Yes? Maybe? No. “I’m having some sort of informational overload, and I’ve been behaving… strangely.”

“If by ‘strangely,’ you mean ‘like a complete arse,’” Sherlock clarified, his grin broadening.

“And Sherlock has been acting like a decent human being, for once,” John continued, watching with satisfaction as the grin slipped away.

“Uh… oh, well, yes,” Ella nodded, eyes still a bit too wide. “I can definitely see a difference. I’m not as familiar with your usual behavior, Mr. Holmes, but… John, you’re positively changed!”

John rolled his eyes. Redundant.

“Why don’t you both sit down, so we can try and get a handle on this.”

They both nodded, although when they went to pick seats, John noticed that Sherlock didn’t seem to notice or care about the lewd scuffmarks, one hand casually strewn across them.

“You said it started today?”

“This morning, or possibly yesterday night,” John supplied, resisting the urge to remind her that he’d already told her this over the phone. “Sherlock had his own version of my nightmares, and I had his insomnia. That was the first swap, and it just got weirder from there.”

“Swap? On the phone, you mentioned acting out each other’s behaviors, like a mind swap or spiritual channeling or some such?

“Yes, or at least, the behaviors and personality that we perceive,” Sherlock said. “For one, true channeling is impossible. Besides, John is blowing my personality completely out of proportion.”

“I wouldn’t say  _completely_  out of proportion,” John snorted, readjusting himself on the seat. This chair hadn’t been used as often. The cushions were tight and uncomfortable. Probably used for unwilling husbands in couples counseling. “And at least I’m being useful. If you were really channeling me, you would be, I don’t know, making nice with some witnesses or something. Doing some legwork. You’ve just been resting on your laurels.”

“I have not!” Sherlock frowned. He still hadn’t noticed where he was resting his hand. He was probably sitting on the aged residue of those activities, as well. Ugh. “I’ve been right with you every step of the way!”

“Staring off at nothing and interrupting me!” John said, more harshly than he meant. Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled, eyes growing darker, but John couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Hardly conducive to solving crimes, hm?”

“Okay!” Ella chuckled. “Wow, okay, hold on. I didn’t realize I was going to be doing couples counseling here. I would’ve brought my other notebook.” She looked back and forth between them as they turned to glare at her, amusement plain on her face. “Let’s just say that you’re both… not yourselves right now. We can agree to that, yes?”

“Definitely,” Sherlock agreed sullenly, gaze turning inward, and John nodded his assent.

“Good. That’s a start. Now, since this is such a dramatic change, I have to ask: has anything particularly traumatic happened in the past few weeks?”

Sherlock and John glanced at each other, minds turning over their many criminal chases and dangerously close calls, before John finally allowed, “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Before Dr. Thompson could formulate a new question, Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and held up his hand, cutting her off.

“Listen,” he said slowly, each well-formed word carrying the weight of their situation, “we need to fix this, quickly. When we rang you up, you said you could do it.”  _It._  Hypnosis. Something that would bury itself deep into their minds, hopefully reminding them of their true selves. Since it was likely that some sort of hypnosis had caused this in the first place, it seemed like the most reasonable solution. The most immediate solution.  “So, can you? A woman’s life may depend on it.”

“Well, technically she’s already dead,” John corrected, but quickly added, “but yes, her murderer might be walking around free at this very moment. We need Sherlock back in top shape to solve this.”

Sherlock looked slightly taken aback, despite John’s statement being perfectly logical. Sherlock solved crimes. He needed to solve this crime.

“You’re doing a fairly decent job of it,” the detective said, and a quick glance assured John that no, he wasn’t being snarky.

“Oh… Thanks,” he said, a lopsided smile crawling across his face. “You’re being a pretty good me, too. Although I have to admit, being you is way more exhausting.”

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock said, snorting, his shoulders slumping in emphasis.

“Definitely brought the wrong notebook,” Ella murmured to herself, and rose to her feet. “Alright, then. Extreme measures? I can do that. But I can’t do it with both of you in here. It was alright in the beginning, for partial diagnoses, but now it’s just distracting.”

Sherlock lifted his chin, and John could see him steeling himself for whatever challenges lay ahead, perfectly willing to take whatever proverbial bullet the good doctor sent their way.

“I’ll go first,” John found himself saying, before he knew what he was saying, feeling the waves of fear that welled up at the idea of  _something_ or  _somebody_  touching his innermost self.

Ella smiled, moving behind her desk and pulling a metronome from one of its dark drawers. “Right, then. Mr. Holmes, into the waiting room, please. I’ll fetch you in a bit.”

* * *

For the first ten minutes, John wasn’t sure it was going to work. The lights had been dimmed, the blinds pulled, and the metronome ticked off the seconds from Ella’s desk. Ten minutes for his mind to quit swirling enough for Ella’s instructions to finally sink in deep enough that he stopped deducing things like the make and model of the metronome, and that its tick was exactly .25 seconds off. Ten minutes for him to sink into himself.

And then he was opening his eyes, Ella looking down at him, a patient smile on her face as she patted his shoulder.

“John?”

“Wh- What happened?” he asked, blinking rapidly and shifting in his seat, his limbs heavy.

“Not what you were hoping, I’m afraid. Let me get to Mr. Holmes first, and then I’ll give my professional opinion.”

“Oh… okay,” John said foggily, allowing himself to be ushered from the room. When he emerged, he found Sherlock sitting bent in thought, elbows on his knees, hands clasped lightly in front of his face. Hearing the door, he straightened up immediately, his eyes searching John’s expectantly. John offered a shrug. “Nothing to it.”

Sherlock looked dubious, surely noting John’s lack of response, but rose to his feet all the same.

“Ready?” Ella asked, herding Sherlock into the abandoned room. The door shut softly behind him, leaving John in silence, aside from the occasional murmurings that escaped through the door. Good to know. If he’d been screaming, Sherlock would’ve heard it. He shook himself as he settled into Sherlock’s still-warm seat. He picked up a magazine, but immediately put it back down, grimacing at the drivel that graced its pages. Boring. His eyes scanned the room, but he closed them quickly, his mind flooded with new information. Waiting rooms were disgusting enough without noticing every tiny detail, thanks. If Sherlock walked around like this his entire life, no wonder he was so jaded.

He thought back to Ella’s expression after his hypnosis, trying to deduce something from her behavior. She was guarded, but that was natural. She was a therapist. They tended to keep everything behind closed doors, unless they were spilling opinions that nobody wanted to hear. Her expression was… Hm. He knitted his brows, thinking. He could picture her face perfectly. He knew exactly which muscles were flexing, and how. He knew how much sleep she’d gotten. Could still smell the cough syrup on her shoulder. Could probably figure out what she’d eaten, from what his near-perfect memory told him about her teeth and breath.

But he couldn’t figure out what she was  _feeling_. That’s what he needed to know.  _Think about it, John. What muscles was she using?_  Corrugator supercilii tensed. Depressor anguli oris flexed. Translation… her brows were a little drawn, and her mouth was pulled into a smile that didn’t meet her eyes. Stress. Reserve. What did that mean, in the grand scheme of things?

He drew a blank.

Fidgeting, he once again turned his attention to the magazine sitting next to him, picking apart the various actors and actresses. Fake jewels, tailored suits, money, affairs, children, relationships. Boring, but he needed the distraction.

* * *

By the time Sherlock reappeared, John was near ready to break the door down. He’d tried entertaining himself, and there were a number of magazine-page origami shapes littering the floor at his feet to prove it. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at them, but said nothing. It didn’t need to be said.

_It didn’t work._

John swept the paper scraps under his chair as Ella stepped out, her expression unchanged from earlier. Sherlock’s hypnosis has provided no new information.

“Alright, as it tends to go, I have some good news, and some bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Good,” Sherlock said, exactly in time with John’s, “Bad.”

Ella looked between them for a second before continuing, “The good news is that there’s nothing wrong with either of you, aside from the obvious. You’re both fit as fiddles.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” John started, but Ella held up a hand, silencing him.

“No, it doesn’t. Which leads to my bad news. Since I can’t see anything wrong, I can’t fix it. Honestly, I’m baffled. No matter the cause, the mind is aware. In such a deep state, you should have been able to tell me.”

“That doesn’t make any  _sense_ ,” John reiterated, his mind spiraling off into numerous directions without his consent. It made him nauseous, and he shook his head, kneading the bridge of his nose as his brain splintered. A hand on his shoulder brought him down again, and he looked back to find Sherlock staring at him, his expression… something. Concern? Whatever it was, it was nice, and he smiled tightly in appreciation.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Ella said, and now John could see that expression plainly on her face, too. The one that had been so difficult to pin down. Concern. “It looks like you’re on your own with this one.”

* * *

They didn’t speak as they left Ella’s building. Not that they’d said more to each other than was absolutely necessary since the beginning of this mess, not counting their little tiff in the therapist’s office. The entire situation had a surreal air to it, as if at any moment, they might turn to each other, laugh, and play it off as one monumental joke.

Except that it _wasn’t_ a joke. John could see the changes rapidly settling into Sherlock’s every movement, every expression, and from the few times he had dared to turn his new observational skills on himself, he didn’t like what he found. The problem was not so much that it felt foreign, as if they were acting the part of each other. No, the problem was that this felt _natural_ , as if John had always been brilliant and just a little too sharp around the edges. As if Sherlock had always used those big blue green gray eyes of his to pull him back to reality, just when he thought he’d keel over from informational overload. He watched Sherlock carefully, judging by his posture that his flat mate was wrestling with Ella’s news in his own way. Feeling him watching, Sherlock looked up from where he’d been staring at the pavement, and John held his gaze, feeling simultaneously grounded and somehow lighter.

No, he felt much better not thinking about it, thanks.

He pulled out his mobile, noting that he’d missed several calls from Molly while his phone was set to silent. He dialed her back immediately, fidgeting as the line rang too many times.

_“Hullo, you’ve got my voicemail! Leave a me-“_

“Shit!” John swore, stuffing the phone back in his pocket as he paced the sidewalk, eyes scanning the street for cabs.

“What now?” Sherlock asked in a very calm, non-Sherlock sort of way. John took a breath, realizing by comparison just how anxious he’d become. Unable to find an answer to Sherlock’s question, however, he pursed his lips, holding his hand out in time to catch a cab. “John, was that Molly? She must have found something.” He was looking at his own mobile now, frowning at the string of missed calls. Probably more than John. Molly wouldn’t have known yet to direct any new information to him.

Yet. He felt the stirrings of anxiety well up again at that. No, they were going to get this fixed _before_ people began directing their questions and statements to John. He swallowed.

“Did she leave a message?” he asked, climbing into the back of the cab. Gum on the floorboards. Old gum, judging by its colour. Cabbie obviously didn’t take much pride in his cab. Oh. He looked back and forth between the cabbie and “his” photograph. Strong family resemblance. Probably strong enough to fool officials, but yes, this was definitely his brother’s cab. That explained a lot. The direction they were headed, for instance. Straight into a busy intersection, unless they took the light two streets-

He shook his head, realizing once again that Sherlock had been speaking to him.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, hating his own inability to think about fifty things while simultaneously listening to Sherlock. Also, since the cab was moving, he assumed that Sherlock had decided on their destination, as well. This strangely didn’t irk him as much as he expected it to.

“I said, she sent a text, but it just says to call her. Important. That she found something,” Sherlock said, but his expression wasn’t one of excitement. He wore the same face he’d had in Ella’s office. Concern. “Are you alright, John?”

Well, to be perfectly honest, he should’ve expected that question. It was something _he_ would’ve asked, had their positions been reversed. …As they should’ve been. Still the query made him grimace, and he turned to look out the window. Immediately, he regretted it. He picked up blurred details as the cab sped past, his mind filing away insignificant details like how many rats were living in that particular sewer and whether those designer dresses were just knock-offs of the actresses’ dresses he’d been making into paper cranes a moment earlier and hadn’t he done a project on cranes in fifth grade and made a B…

He dropped his head into his hands, letting out a groan. “It won’t shut off! _God_!”

Sherlock’s hand found its way to his shoulder, squeezing.

“My brain isn’t built for this,” he continued. “I’m going to go mad!” The hand found its way to the back of his neck, rubbing circles below his hairline. John looked up, a little surprised, his gaze met by gray eyes, cast in shadow. He breathed out, feeling himself relax, and then immediately stiffened. Wasn’t that strange? To relax from just that? Sensing his discomfort, Sherlock removed his hand, turning to look out the window. John watched his curls. They weren’t as bouncy as usual. Running low on shampoo… Oh, because John was going to pick some up night before last. Monday. The night Joanne had rung him up, and he’d ended up over at her flat, instead. Joanne, with her big, dark eyes and thick black hair. A lot like Sherlock, actually, if only in appearance. Not so much in terms of creepy voodoo doll and creepy card fetishes. Goosepimples popped up across his arms at the thought of that, and he resisted the urge to rub them back into submission.

“We have to find a way to fix this, Sherlock,” he said instead, feeling the futility behind his own words.

“We will,” Sherlock assured him, his posture relaxed and determined. Whatever conclusion he’d come to, he was feeling no pain. Probably felt fine shucking off his _brain_ problem onto John’s fragile psyche. Still, in spite of himself, John felt reassured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Britpicking by the wonderful [merpirate](http://archiveofourown.org/users/merpirate), who is perhaps too kind to me, but I fault her nothing ♥ All mistakes still remaining are my own, and I always appreciate having them pointed out~


	6. Inanition

The meeting with John’s psychiatrist hadn’t been a complete waste of time. They’d learned that nothing was wrong with them. Nothing their bodies understood, at least. Drugs couldn’t possibly produce this effect. Hypnosis would’ve identified any conditioning, if they’d been kidnapped and tortured over an extended period of time. And surely John’s psychiatrist would’ve noted John’s missed appointments, as well, to say nothing of Lestrade. Sherlock's mind screamed at him that there was no other scientific option, but he recognized panic when he felt it. He pushed the fear aside, focusing on the road ahead. The only facts were the changes he could see in himself and John, so he focused on those. As he stood in the office waiting room watching John slowly fall to pieces, a thought had occurred to him. Well, several thoughts.

The first was that despite his decreased processing power, he still had the ability to come to sound conclusions. Without intending to, he’d settled into a secondary position, allowing his mind to rest as John played “his” role. He had instinctively felt assured that John would solve their mutual problem, and had allowed himself to grow apathetic in a very not-John-like fashion. Since he had the ability to reason, it was logical to assume that he could be playing a much more pivotal role in this. John did, after all, pull his own weight during cases, did he not?

The second thought was much more pressing. In the waiting room, as he watched John’s eyes jump from object to object, person to person, without purpose or intent, it occurred to him that John didn’t appear to have a mind palace. His pupils dilated to twice their normal size, and his hands jerked as he spoke. He appeared overloaded. Somehow, this precious defense mechanism, the mind palace that he’d created as a child to organize his overactive psyche, had failed to transfer over.

And as intent as Sherlock was to make sure a murderer ended up behind bars (W _as that the important part? Not the puzzle?_ ), John’s fragile mental state was far more important. He slipped into the cab next to John, noting that his friend didn’t notice when he gave their own address, 221B Baker Street, and proceeded to wrack his brain on what John had done in the past to calm _him_ down.

Verbal. Get him focused on something his brain can chew on. The case.

“Three texts from Molly. The first says that she found something, but she doesn’t say what. The second is a question mark, nothing else. The third just says, ‘Call me. Important.’”

John’s eyes were glazed, his sight turned inward.

“John?” he asked sharply, brow furrowing.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, snapping out of his haze, pupils dilating and shrinking rapidly as they attempted to focus on Sherlock’s face.

“I said, she sent a text, but it just says to call her. Important. That she found something.” This wasn’t working. He could see John already slipping back into himself again, eyes drifting off to the side. Plan B. Turn John’s attention to himself. If John could become the focus of his own attention, perhaps his self-preservation would be strong enough to force other unnecessary facts out again. “Are you alright, John?”

Not even a blip. His attention was now completely focused on the scenery outside, and considering how quickly the scenery was slipping past, that was definitely not a good thing. Plan C.

Physical contact. Make John aware of his own body. The few times that Sherlock had been deep inside his own mind, physical proximity or contact was usually enough to pop him out again.

He lay a hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Not a huge change, although it did get John talking a little more. That was good. His fingers sought out the closest pressure point, rubbing circles into the top of his spinal cord. The response was instantaneous. John’s eyes focused on his, his muscles relaxing. Sherlock felt a wave of accomplishment bubble in his chest, and then John went stiff under him, pupils contracting. He pulled his hand away, heat crawling up his neck. Embarrassment? But he’d stifled that emotion ages ago, pounding it into submission, lest his anxieties cripple him.

 _John hasn’t stifled his emotions,_ his brain cheekily reminded him. His palm tingled.

As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock sped into their flat, John dogging his heels for the first time since this mess had begun.

“Sherlock?” John called after him, a tremor of hesitation in his voice. Sherlock grinned to himself as he took the stairs two at a time, basking in his own brilliance.

“Hurry up, John! Not a moment to lose!” he said, noting that despite his hesitation, John was only a few steps behind him. Still so blindly loyal. It made his chest squeeze uncomfortably tight, and he swallowed against it, continuing his journey into their flat, lest John see his expression. By the time he reached his destination, however, he’d managed to replace the feeling with one of satisfaction. He beamed, looking over at John, where he still stood in the doorway. “Well?”

John’s expression was dubious at best.

“Ah… yes, well. Well, indeed,” John said, licking his lips. Discomfort. John had such an expressive face. “Is this it?”

Sherlock looked around his bedroom, wondering what else it could possibly be, and then realized that despite John’s increased intelligence, he was still an idiot.

“Look, John! Look around!” he said, broadly gesturing to the nightstand, the lamp, the cleanly-made bed (rarely slept in), and the writing desk with nothing on it, not even a single scratch.

“What am I supposed to be looking at, now?” John asked, scratching the back of his head.

“ _Exactly!_ ” Sherlock practically yelled, striding forward to grasp John’s shoulders and giving him a small shake. “There’s nothing to see! Look around. Try and deduce something about me.” John did as he was told, and as his gaze drifted around the room, his expression began to loosen, eyes widening marginally. Sherlock’s grin broadened further. “Do you _see?_ ”

Letting out a huffing laugh, John shook his head, “Brilliant.” Sherlock felt his throat tighten with the praise. He swallowed it down. “I can deduce that you’re a control freak. Look at how those sheets are tucked in. Tight. No spots or stains. Only one lamp, and it’s unplugged. So you don’t read in here. And that you rarely sleep in here, which, I must say, comes as a huge surprise.” Sherlock felt the lump in his throat disappear, and he scowled at his comrade. “Really, Sherlock. What are we doing in here?”

“ _We_ are giving your mind a place to rest,” Sherlock huffed. “If you can’t control your focus, you can’t think. If you can’t think, you’re useless as me. I structured this room to provide as few distractions as possible. So I’m going to lock you in here and let you think.”

“Wait… what? Sherlock, you can’t be-“

Sherlock swept past him, giving him the briefest fake smile, and slammed the door in his face. The rooms had both been set up with their own keys, as flat sharing was sometimes risky business, and he quickly secured the bolt in place. Still, if John threw his entire weight against it for a prolonged period of time, it probably wouldn’t hold. There was no helping that, though. He just hoped that, when fully immersed in Sherlock’s superior solution, John would come to his senses.

He made his way over to the kitchen, deciding that a nice cup of tea would probably help him think it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted in a bit of a rush, because I'm not sure when I'll get another chance. Sorry for any mistakes! I'll correct them as soon as possible ♥


	7. Cafard

Was it considered socially unacceptable to break down your friend’s door? Taking into account that said friend (although he was giving this title some serious thought) had been the one to lock him behind said door in the first place, he didn’t think it was the worst thing he could do. Then again, when had “socially acceptable” ever been a word used to describe their friendship?

John pounded his fists against the door, shouting a colourful mixture of profanity and sound, logical reasons as to why he should be released.

“Sherlock! Open this bloody door! I’ll pour that entire pitcher of smelly blue stuff down the sink! Be reasonable, we need to tell Lestrade what we discovered! You know they can’t solve anything on their own. Sherlock? SHERLOCK!”

Receiving no answer, he retreated several feet to rummage through Sherlock’s bedside table, looking for something that could be used to pick the lock. Honestly, who installed locks with keyholes on both sides of the door? Mrs. Hudson was just asking for trouble.

His brief search yielded no results. In fact there were very few signs of Sherlockian life whatsoever. A single beaker and a small container of what looked like gecko feet suspended in formaldehyde were the only occupants that pointed to their owner. Aside from these, there were only some wadded up tissues, an empty box that once held incense, and a stray pepper shaker. Perhaps things that Sherlock had been carrying when he’d finally succumbed to exhaustion? And the tissues were probably leftovers from some passing illness.

 _Or other evening activities,_ his overactive mind supplied unhelpfully.

John flushed, sliding the drawer closed and moving on. His hands hesitated above Sherlock’s desk, writhing like tentacles as he weighed the pros of finding freedom with the more likely cons of finding pieces of Sherlock that he hadn’t planned on seeing.

After several seconds of deliberation, he dropped his hands to his sides, tossing himself back on Sherlock’s bed with a _whumph_. After his hundredth mental walkthrough of the room, he still couldn’t find anything solid to focus on, so his thoughts turned inward instead, flitting rapidly through fragments of facts and memories. The case. Sherlock had been right. It was murder. Sherlock was almost always right, when it came to such things. Did that mean _he_ was going to be right all the time now? That could be nice. He wouldn’t even have to be an insufferable git about it, although from the previous day, it seemed like he was firmly headed in that direction.

He turned on his side, sighing deeply. Sherlock’s scent filled his lungs. So the madman had definitely slept in this bed at some point, despite what his immaculate sheets hinted at. The pillow especially smelled of him, despite the smell of shampoo that lay in a thick cloud over it. John’s shampoo.

John paused, going back over his last thoughts. Since when had he been able to identify Sherlock’s _scent_? His sense of smell was decent at best. …Was it possible? Sherlock had a nose like a hound dog… But there was no way that such a change could be completely cerebral. And if the change was physical, that omitted any scientific explanation he’d ever stumbled across. No, not just about. That disproved _every_ scientific explanation. And when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

“SHERLOCK!” John shouted, jackknifing from the bed and throwing himself with renewed vigor against the door. His mind felt weightless, freed from the burden of science’s shackles. “SHERLOCK, I FIGURED IT OUT!” He kicked the door for good measure, but he could already hear the bolt being drawn back, Sherlock’s voice muffled on the other side.

“What? What did you figure out?” his voice became strikingly clear at the end, Sherlock’s face popping into view as John threw the door open, flying down the hallway.

“The _cards_ , Sherlock! The cards!” John laughed, throwing his arms wide. Once in the living room, however, he stopped, eyes jerking from corner to dusted corner. Everything had changed.

Sherlock stood in the entryway, looking at him with sweet, innocent, stupid eagerness.

John rounded on him, blinking rapidly, “You _cleaned?!_ ”

“I thought you would appreciate the gesture!” Sherlock countered, face falling.

“Well?! Where are they?” he asked, hands tightening into fists. Of all the bloody days to…

“Where are _what_ , John?” Sherlock asked sharply, and John could see Sherlock’s shared excitement from earlier slipping away. He recognized the new emotion. It was one of his most frequent feelings when dealing with a pre-supernatural-bodyswap-Sherlock. Frustration. He forced himself to slow down, taking a deep breath.

“You aren’t going to like my explanation,” he said instead. Sherlock nodded, and John decided he liked this agreeable, eager side of him. Perhaps they could somehow keep that when they switched back. Assuming they _could_ switch back. He was still fuzzy on those details. This wasn’t exactly his area. “You know those cards I was messing around with this morning?” Another nod. “Those cards. Bring them here.” He flopped down onto the sofa, patting the dust-free coffee table. Sherlock really had done a brilliant job with the place.

Sherlock found the cards easily enough, and carefully set the closed pack down on the coffee table in front of John, slumping down onto the couch beside him.

“Okay. Now explain.”


	8. Theft

“This is insane. You know this is insane, right?” Sherlock said for the millionth time since John had explained the only logical (if irrational) conclusion. John was pleased to note that he didn’t seem to be getting in the way, despite his reservations, as John flagged down yet another taxi (they were definitely keeping that profession in business) and gave the driver the girl’s address. John hadn’t bothered replying the last several times, since it was obvious that Sherlock was just babbling for its own sake, but he did feel a little off-kilter without Sherlock on his side.

“Absolutely bloody insane,” Sherlock reiterated.

“What is it, then?” he finally snapped, noting the way the cabby’s eyes flickered to him in the rear view mirror. He didn’t care. “If you’re just exploding with suggestions, I’m all ears!”

This seemed to quiet him down a bit, although those lines that John had neatly labeled “concern” were deepening by the minute, which only made John slightly more irritated. He didn’t need Sherlock’s concern. He wasn’t bloody insane.

Although, he was going to start going insane soon enough. As soon as Sherlock got quiet, his brain leapt enthusiastically back into its earlier role, picking up every minute detail of each passing object. He bowed his head, closing his eyes against the onslaught, fingers steepled against the bridge of his nose. While this wasn’t the most effective treatment, it allowed him to get to their destination in one piece.

The cab paused at the end of the street, as directed, and John hopped nimbly out onto the sidewalk, Sherlock climbing out deliberately slowly in his wake. John could practically see the wheels spinning in his head. The doubt. The hope. The dismissal of hope. The desire for his friend not to be crazy.

“So what’s the plan, then?” Sherlock finally asked, straightening himself up and putting on his _resolute_ face. John, feeling a sudden surge race through him, decided he rather liked that face. It just begged to be tested. He shook off that feeling immediately.

“Right, so you know that voodoo doll she has of me?” he said, making his way toward the woman’s home. “That has to be at the center of all this. We have to get in there and snatch it away from her.”

“And then what? We know next to nothing about the occult.”

“Cross that bridge when we come to it,” said John.

After taking note that Joanne’s car was missing, they made their way up around the back of the neighboring house, as if that would provide them any cover. The brickwork fences in this area barely came up to the thigh, which make creeping about painfully obvious. They had chosen a decent part of the day, however, as it seemed like most of the residents were at work. The street was silent, apart from some tiny dog’s muffled yapping.

John tried the back door first, wracking his brain to remember the layout of Joanna’s home. Which doors she kept locked. Which windows she left open. If only he had been as hypersensitive to his surroundings a week ago. As it was, they had to make their way systematically around the home, trying doors and windows as they went. Finally, a foggy, dark window near the front of the house slid open, and both men let out a soft sigh of relief. Sherlock gave him a boost, and John managed to fall through with some small amount of grace, groping blindly against thick black curtains. He extended a hand, pulling Sherlock up after him, but paused once they were both inside. A line of light illuminated a stripe of Sherlock’s face for an instant, one pupil narrowing to a pinpoint as his other eye warred with the darkness, before John pulled the curtains closed. They breathed together in the darkness, hearts racing.

“Alright, you stay here and keep watch,” John said, laying one hand across Sherlock’s shoulder, as if to pin him to the spot. Even in near-darkness, he could see the argument building in his friend’s posture. “I know exactly where it is. I won’t be two seconds.”

Without waiting for an answer, he made his way across the room, memories of the home’s layout reemerging. This was the spare room. Through this door, which didn’t even whisper as he opened it, lay the hallway. Down the hallway would be the living room, where his treasure sat nestled beneath the couch. Or at least, he hoped it still rested beneath the couch. She wouldn’t have moved it. Couldn’t have any way of knowing he was coming to steal it.

Could she?

He reached out to rest one hand on the hallway wall, eyes narrowed against the darkness. He had only ever been inside Joanne’s home at night, so he’d never had cause to notice how light-filching the curtains could be. He bit his lip as his injured hand came into contact with something unyielding. A light switch. As tempting as it was, he passed by, reigning in the pain.

The wall abruptly ended, and John could barely make out lumps of lighter darkness amidst the lumps of darker darkness. Creeping over to what he hoped was a couch-shaped lump, he went down on his knees and ran his good hand along the carpet, feeling a jolt of delight as his fingers curled around some oddly shaped, fabric-covered something.

And immediately withdrew it at the sound of a hearty, high-pitched scream.


	9. Jealousy

It wasn’t that Sherlock thought it was a bad idea. It was a logical thing, for one person to stand watch while the other committed some crime. He could’ve learned that from any cop show, even if he hadn’t spent a great portion of his life working with the police. No, it was perfectly rational. In fact, if not for the chewing sensation in his gut, he would’ve been quite happy keeping watch.

But there it was. The feeling that something was very, _very_ wrong, eating him up from the inside. With a soft curse, he abandoned his post, peering uselessly around the open door frame out into the hallway. Dark. It wasn’t until he reached the opening to the living room, making his way forward on silent tip-toe, that he realized what the gnawing in his stomach was all about. And then, he learned in a rush.

Several things happened all at once. Firstly, the ear-shattering scream. Secondly, the warm body sinking not painlessly into his own, sending them both toppling to the floor. Thirdly, the lights.

Sherlock’s hand groped at the air behind his back for the split-second that it took him to remember that he didn’t carry a gun. John did. And John was on top of him. Glaring at him.

“I told you to keep watch!” John hissed, as if this entire mess was his fault. Sherlock glared right back at him, opening his mouth to retort, but somebody else beat him to it.

“J- JOHN?” continued that painfully high voice, emerging from the floor in front of the couch. Thick, curly black hair. Long lashes. Deep-set eyes. High cheekbones. And furious. “What in the bloody blazes are you doing in my home? In the _dark_! You… you pervert!” Her pitch rose to an intensity that made both men wince. “You… We’re finished! I can’t believe…”

John leapt to his feet, finally finding his own voice.

“We’re finished?!” he echoed, emphasizing each word. Sherlock climbed to his own feet quickly, lest he need to take action. “We were over the moment you did… did _this_ to us!” He finished out gesturing wildly between himself and Sherlock. He took a threatening step forward, and the woman, who Sherlock suspected must be Joanne, took a step back, her eyes growing almost imperceptibly larger. Not from understanding. Fear. She was afraid of them. Two men, in her home, practically foaming at the mouth. Sherlock felt disappointment crush in around him. She wasn’t a witch. She was just a slightly eccentric woman.

“Where is it?” John spat, taking another step forward, his hand on the back of the couch, as if readying himself to vault over it. “Where is that cursed doll?”

“W- what doll?” Joanne asked, taking a step back, her calf bumping against her coffee table. There was a blanket spread across the rug, along with a mug of something steaming, probably tea.

“The doll that looks like me! The one you used to curse me, you crazy witch!”

Sherlock saw John’s muscles tighten, saw the precursor to the movement that would put him too close to this woman. His John, the John he knew, wouldn’t do something like that. Was that something _he_ would do?

_Maybe. Before you met him._

And that was it then, wasn’t it?

“John,” Sherlock said sharply, and John jerked as if struck, eyes snapping back to where Sherlock stood framed by the hallway. “John, you’re frightening her.”

“I’m frightening _her_?” John asked, incredulous, but Sherlock saw the doubt creep into his eyes, softening his anger. When he turned back to Joanne, his muscles had relaxed from the panther-pouncing-prey pose they had struck earlier. There was a momentary lull as everyone seemed to be deciding what to do, and then Joanne’s eyes widened a fraction further, lips parting. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.

That.

That was understanding.

“But you do know what we’re talking about, don’t you,” Sherlock rumbled. His deep baritone seemed to catch her off-guard, as if she hadn’t really noticed him back there.

“I don’t… I mean… It doesn’t-“ she cut off, shaking her head. John’s expression tightened again, but he seemed to have regained his composure, and now his eyes, not his posture, gleamed predatorily. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

“When you called earlier,” John said quickly, “you asked if I still had the card deck. You said it venomously. It wasn’t a gift. It was a punishment.”

Joanne winced as if she’d been pinched.

“And that doll that I saw beneath your couch. It looked exactly like me, did it not? It was a voodoo doll. You have cursed me, Joanne. And you will find some way to remove this curse, or so help me, I will make the rest of your life a tormented hell.”

“What- what’s gotten into you?” she asked quietly, her voice cracking toward the end. “This isn’t the sweet John I knew.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said hastily, before John could criticize anyone in this room without reason. “That was all kind of the point, was it not? To swap John’s personality with another? Swap completed. Now, let’s swap back, shall we?” He clapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly.

“What?” she barked a laugh. “No, that’s not what I did at all.”

John and Sherlock both froze. She laughed again, this time more incredulously.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she scoffed, looking between them, as if their strange set of circumstances had really just occurred to her. “Just out with your flatmate, were you?”

“Yes! Yes, I was just out with my flatmate!” John insisted, really not seeing what was so funny. Strangely enough, despite this not being his usual area of expertise, Sherlock was starting to realize. He kept his mouth tightly closed.

“I put a spell on you, yes. Not that I thought it would actually work. Just a bit of fun. But it wasn’t supposed to do,” she motioned between them, “this.” John fidgeted impatiently, not appreciating his own lack of understanding. Sherlock empathized. “I meant for it to be a journey of self-discovery between _us_.” At these last words, her smile split open impossibly wide, and she laughed again loudly. “And here was thinking that you’d have to go through all of that alone!”

“Make some sense, will you?” John demanded, his hand going tense once more on the edge of the couch. He was losing it. Sherlock might have to explain soon, and he really, really didn’t want to have to do that.

“The voodoo spell, the one with the little doll version of you, was supposed to tie the spirits together! Two people who were in a deep, spiritual relationship. And I stupidly thought that person was me!”


	10. A Forged Will?

The pieces snapped together like the neatest little puzzle in the world, except the picture was all wrong and definitely not what had been on the cover of the box. John opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again. What emerged was something that definitely didn’t _sound_ like it came from him, so he shut his mouth again.

“I don’t-“ he began, precisely when Sherlock managed a, “We aren’t-“

Joanne raised an eyebrow, apparently beginning to feel more comfortable, despite having intruders in her home. John felt an itch of admiration for a woman who could pick herself up so quickly in the face of adversity. In fact, it was something similar to that trait that had first drawn him to her.

 _Yes, it had nothing to do with her lustrous hair and fine cheekbones_ , his mind supplied unhelpfully. He could feel Sherlock’s gaze bouncing almost nervously between him and the witch, and he would be damned if he allowed his sight the same freedom. He was not in a _spiritual relationship_ with Sherlock, and they definitely didn’t need to be taking some journey of self-discovery together. They had a working partnership. An understanding. At best, a good friendship.

 _And if your neck tingles when he touches it, well…_ He never had been able to trust his body, anyway. Just look at his psychosomatic limp!

“How do we reverse it?” John asked, jaw stiff.

That earned him a half-hearted shrug.

“Hell if I know. I just barely got into this stuff. I usually just meditate. Converse with spirit guides. That sort of thing,” she said flippantly, motioning at the blanket at her feet. Well, that explained what she was doing on the floor in the dark. “Most likely, it can’t be stopped. Think of this as an expedition. You can’t get halfway down a path and suddenly decide to be back home again. There are no taxis in the spirit world.”

“How long will it take, then?” John asked sourly, not liking this spirit world business one bit.

“And what will completing the… expedition… entail?” Sherlock added.

“Well, I tied it to that silly card pack,” she said. John pulled the pack from his pocket, walking over to spread them out on the coffee table. “Okay then, have you figured out where you are in the deck?”

“How do we do that?” Sherlock asked.

“The cards have meanings,” John said quickly, immersing himself in the cards as he arranged them into the most logical order he could think of, which wasn’t very logical at all. The card with no words he left at the end. It gave him chills whenever his eyes landed upon it. The Doll, if he remembered correctly. He pushed it out of his line of sight. Sherlock leaned against the couch behind him as John sat down, both looking the cards over.

“The Bundle,” Joanne said, reading from the booklet that came with the deck. “Illness. Hangnails-“

“No,” John cut her off quickly, absent-mindedly rubbing his fingernails together.

“What about the Sea card? Oh no, loss of ears…”

“Loss of ears?” Sherlock repeated, incredulous.

“Obviously not that card,” Joanne murmured apologetically.

“Are we going to be? On that card someday?” Sherlock asked, and John could hear the edges of panic stirring in his voice. 

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Joanne replied, her face pulled into a grimace over whatever she was reading next.

“Did you even _look_ at the cards before you did this?” John asked, wondering why Joanne would choose to go on a journey of self-discovery as masochistic as this. Joanne shook her head, as expected.

“It was a joke pack! The girl at the store said the artist illustrated kids’ books or something! I didn’t think-“

“That we’d be losing ears?” Sherlock finished, his voice crawling up to a tone that John was relatively unfamiliar with. Interesting.

“Maybe it’ll just stop after one card!” Joanne said quickly, her free hand fisting against the hem of her shirt anxiously.

“And we’ll just hope that it isn’t a card that lops off body parts,” John supplied.

They said in silence a while after this, John staring at the cards, as if by sheer force of will he could get them to release their power over him. If he could just figure out… something. There had to be a way out of this. Maybe he could do some research into the occult? Make sure it didn’t progress any further? There had to be more experienced witches out there, as well. Someone who could actually help them out of this mess.

“HA!” Joanne exclaimed, giving both men a start. “It was the first one! I had skipped right over it! Jealousy: that would be my jealousy causing this situation. Theft: that’s you sneaking into my house for the doll. Have either of you had an accident in a restaurant, perhaps?”

Their eyes leapt down to John’s bandaged thumb.

“Okay, good! This card seems rather mild, in comparison with most of the others. Let’s just figure out how far along it’s gotten, shall we? The first word is… Tuesday?”

“The day of the accident, when everything started,” John nodded.

“Slander?”

“Not that we know of,” Sherlock replied warily. Slander wasn’t as bad as losing body parts, but it certainly could ruin a career. The last thing they needed was lasting consequences from this.

“Okay, does Reversals mean anything to you?”

Sherlock met John’s gaze and they let out twin huffs of exhausted laughter.

“Take that as a yes. Creeping sickness?”

“Just the slow loss of sanity,” murmured Sherlock.

“Put that down as a maybe,” John offered.

“A forged will?”

“Nothing in regards to-“ John began, cutting of quickly. His head snapped up, eyes widening. “Oh… oh!”

“Oh?” Joanne prodded.

“That’s it!” John said, a broad, eccentric smile breaking out across his face. “That’s the key! The will! It wasn’t the granddaughter at all!”

* * *

Sherlock felt his spirits, momentarily heightened, wilt again as he realized that John’s revelation was not, in fact, about their predicament. Not that the murder was unimportant. He just felt that, as close as they were, that perhaps their situation took precedence. At least for the moment.

“Oh, this is insidious! I must speak with Lestrade!” Faster than a bullwhip, John was on his feet and making his way back down the hallway, phone in hand. From his lack of speech, and no small amount of criticisms spilling from John’s usually well-behaved mouth, he guessed that Lestrade hadn’t picked up. He was about ready to offer his own phone, which perhaps Lestrade would answer, when he heard a low thump. Sherlock ran down the hall, only to find the window that they had entered through closed, and John nowhere in sight.

“Text me the rest!” Sherlock said quickly to Joanne, jotting down his number. At least now they knew that the cards didn’t have to pertain directly to them. Perhaps the loss of an ear could be some victim in a case? Wouldn’t that be lucky.

He had barely stepped off the curb when his phone vibrated. Good girl. Once in the relative safety of yet another cab, he pulled out the list, relieved to find neither car accidents nor kidnappings listed there.

_The Ladder_

_Tuesday_  
 _Slander_  
 _Reversals_  
 _Creeping sickness_  
 _A forged will_  
 _Insomnia_  
 _Loss of hair_  
 _Detention_  
 _Theft_  
 _Cafard_  
 _Jealousy_  
 _An accident in a restaurant_  
 _Inanition_

Some of the words were far too general to speculate over whether they had passed, but others were more obvious. The hair loss, for instance, Sherlock suspected he would notice. Unless it was simply talking about their current lack of shampoo?

His stomach gurgled pitifully, and he rolled his eyes.

“We do not. Need. Lunch,” he reminded the greedy organ, although some deep, demanding voice reared its head to argue. Yes, he definitely needed to get his own psyche back, thank you. It was far more obedient than this one.

Going back to the list, the only two he could tell with certainty had not come to pass were _slander_ and the _forged will_ , although he suspected that John had the second one quite under control. And while slander was not the best thing that could happen, it certainly wasn’t the worst.

No, they might just come out of this thing alright.

 _If,_ a dark voice reminded him, _things go back to normal when this ‘journey’ ends._


End file.
